


And Now, The Weather

by night-vale-weatherman (prismatism)



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Episode: e002 The Glow Cloud, Episode: e013 A Story About You, Gen, Synesthesia, The Weather (Welcome to Night Vale), The Weatherman, Typical Night Vale Weirdness, also I'll give specific ratings and warnings in the beginning notes of each chapter, tags to be added as the chapters go up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-28 19:18:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7653562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prismatism/pseuds/night-vale-weatherman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever wonder how Night Vale Community Radio gets its weather? Ernest Welles, who goes by the title of his job, “the Weatherman,” provides forecasts for Cecil’s show in the form of songs. Take a peek behind the scenes with the Weatherman’s perspective on various episodes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bus Is Late

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet the Weatherman, the employee of Night Vale Community Radio in charge of choosing the forecasts that play on Cecil’s show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based on Episode 2: The Glow Cloud  
> Chapter Rating: General  
> Chapter Warnings: None

The first thing the Weatherman noticed as he stepped out his front door was the team of scientists gathered around a house down the block. Or rather, gathered around what they had declared a non-house, one that didn’t exist, even if it would make more sense for it to exist than not. After all, it appeared identical to his own house, and all the others stretching down the roads of the Desert Creek housing development. But things rarely existed just because it would make sense for them to exist, and those scientists seemed to have a better grasp on this whole ‘existence’ thing anyway.

The Weatherman carried his briefcase, locked due to the confidential nature of the City Council’s reports contained with in, and a purple umbrella, strapped tightly shut because it was not supposed to rain today. He hardly ever used the umbrella for its intended function of blocking precipitation — storms rarely frequented the desert, and the accuracy of his forecasts gave him plenty of warning. Instead, the bundle of metal and plastic acted as an emergency support. A cane might have been more effective, but the Weatherman felt his chosen accessory better matched his purple tie and grey suit, not to mention his profession. The metal tip of the umbrella tapped against the sidewalk a beat ahead of his own steps, creating a light waltzing rhythm that peppered the air around him with orange sparks.

He noted each secret agent and member of the Sheriff’s Secret Police as he passed, either waving or ducking his head to hide behind the brim of his hat, depending on how well their last interaction had turned out. Halfway through his walk to the station, he paused to examine the strange colors off on the western horizon. Vivid oranges and tangerines mixed against the pale blue sky, almost exactly like that one Bach fugue. Which would have been perfect, except that the forecast played over the radio a few days ago had not been a Bach fugue. He whistled the tune that had actually played to check, and sure enough the melody was all blues and yellows — clear, sunny skies. Of course, it wasn’t unusual for his forecasts to be wrong, he reminded himself as started off on his walk once more. What frustrated him more than the inaccuracy was that he hadn’t been able to tackle the challenge of finding a song to match those swirling hues — which, as he checked over his shoulder, now seemed to be green and magenta.

After passing through the station’s usual security measures and the localized terror of tiptoeing by Station Management, the Weatherman strolled down the carpeted main hallway and opened the door to his office. The back wall of the room was taken up entirely by three bookshelves, each filled with vinyl records. Some stood vertically, while others stacked haphazardly, none oriented in quite the same direction as any of the others near it. The Weatherman had once attempted to organize the collection, as evidenced by the slightly neater shelf in the upper-right-hand corner, but stopped when he couldn’t settle on a system. Alphabetic seemed a good place to start, but then he’d have to decide whether to sort by album title or artist, and of course the numbers had to throw him off as usual (did a name that started with “one” come first, or in the “O” section? not to mention all the titles written in Sumerian or other ambiguously alphabetizable symbols). Of course, the most convenient way to organize would be by color, but there was no guarantee that all the songs on one record drew from a similar palette, so it was practically infeasible. No, it wasn’t worth trying to sort them out in any particular matter, because while visibly cluttered, the Weatherman knew his hoard well enough to find exactly the song he needed at any given moment.

When he slid his suitcase across his desk, a dark brown shape with far too many legs skittered back towards him. Every time he thought they’d taken care of the scorpion infestation, the critters managed to find their way back into the station. “Void damn it,” he muttered, searching for a weapon. With only seconds to spare before the arachnid hid itself in a dark crevice of his office (and it had plenty to choose from), the Weatherman grabbed the nearest paperweight and smashed downwards. The force he used proved greater than necessary as thick juices splattered across his hand. Trying to minimize contact with even the corpse of his least favorite animal, he dumped the exoskeleton into a trash can and walked briskly towards the men’s bathroom.

The Weatherman was so focused on removing the sticky substances from his hand that he had already turned the on the water and reached for the soap before noticing the cat hovering next to the sink. It rested about four feet off the ground, not visibly supported by any boxes or strings. Cats did not look as threatening as scorpions, but they were equally if not more toxic, which consequently made them more dangerous on the whole. But still, the Weatherman couldn’t help feeling a tug on his heartstrings as the creature gave a deafening, paprika-flavored meow. Once he’d managed to wash the majority of the scorpion remains from his fingers, he rushed to tell Cecil the news.

The door to the broadcasting studio was already closed, and through the round window he could see Cecil setting up to begin his show. The Weatherman hadn’t realized how late it was, but maybe that had something to do with the scientists complaining about time being weird. He tapped on the door to get the radio host’s attention, the sound producing a few blue bubbles that floated gently upward. When Cecil looked over, the Weatherman started signing about the cat, hands moving fluidly through the phrases. After a few moments Cecil shot back, an ‘I know,’ and scribbled a few notes down in the margins of his script. The Weatherman shrugged, and turned back to his own office. If the broadcast was about to start, he had less time than he’d thought to make the final decision for Friday’s forecast.

The choice came down to two options, as choices often did. He placed the first record onto the turntable, pulling bulky headphones over his ears at the same time. The song started off well and good, the opening silver chords giving way to pink silken strains of the vocalist. The trouble started with the bridge, which burst into a lavender entirely inconsistent with the windstorm he needed to forecast. He removed the headphones and ran his fingers through his hair, staring grumpily at the spinning disk. The colors of the second song were perfect — he knew this, having already compared the two half a dozen times. The trouble lay in the lyrics. The words of the song were about rain, and he worried about sending the listeners conflicting messages. In an ideal world, he’d be able to find another song with the correct colors and more meteorologically neutral lyrics, but station funds were limited, so he had to work within the confines of his musical library.  
To put off the decision just a bit longer, the Weatherman plugged his headphones into the handheld radio on his desk and let Cecil’s chocolate tones wash over him. The radio host spoke about the Glow Cloud, so it wasn’t just him who’d seen shifting colors in the sky today. Hearing the daily news relaxed him so much that he nearly missed Cecil’s lead in to the weather.

With seconds left to choose, the Weatherman jumped up, holding one record in each hand. The seconds of dead airtime seemed to stretch out into an eternity, until finally, he rested the second disk on the turntable and hit play. Forget contradictory lyrics, the listeners would surely hear the true message behind a few potentially misleading words. He couldn’t choose the wrong colors over such a simple thing.

[[Listen Here]](https://satellitehigh.bandcamp.com/track/the-bus-is-late)

Of course. Today, he couldn’t just have been a little bit wrong. As if it could have just been a few interesting colors in the sky that he missed. No, it had to be one of the most significant precipitation events that Night Vale had seen in years. Literal tons of animals falling from the sky, all different colors and species — and he hadn’t forecasted any of it. To be fair, without significant assistance from the stars, the Weatherman couldn’t predict the behavior of sentient beings unless they were kind enough to warn him in advance. Just recently those new angels had thrown his entire weekly schedule out of whack by flying in a dozen thunderclouds from across the country without notice. He would have brought up their behavior with the City Council during one of their regular meetings, but he figured that the Council would have only gotten mad about him acknowledging their existence.

At least he’d made the right choice of song for Friday’s forecast. For a moment, he’d nearly backed out due to a few words, as if their meaning was somehow more important than the tones and syllables that made them up. And even if another glowing cloud or flashing beast came to town and disrupted the weather again, he’d made his best attempt. That had to count for something, he thought, watching the stars blink into the sky and mysterious lights float up above the Arby’s. Even if it only counted to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Questions and feedback are greatly appreciated, and let me know if there are any particular weather forecasts you're interested in hearing the story behind!


	2. You Don't Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The premise of this narrative seems familiar to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based on Episode 13: A Story About You  
> Chapter Rating: General  
> Chapter Warnings: None  
> 

This is a story about you, said the man on the radio. And you were surprised, because you never expected to hear about yourself on the radio.

Welcome to Night Vale.

This is a story about you. You work for the Night Vale Community Radio Station. You have worked there many years — you don’t know how many. Numbers are not important to you. Occasionally, they are useful for ordering songs in a playlist, or for counting out rhythms. Mostly, they are a nuisance.

The voice on the radio is a familiar one. You have heard it many times, on and off the radio. It used to taste like jelly beans, but these days when you hear it, your mouth fills with the rich flavor of chocolate. The man behind the voice has also changed. But this story is not about the man on the radio.

This story is about you.

You have always lived in Night Vale. You have read about other towns with more buildings and more water, but you have never been to any of them. Sometimes, you think about leaving to visit one, but mostly you do not. You like it here, in this friendly desert community. It has always been your home.

Your life is a swirling maze of colors and sounds. When you were younger, you used to think that everyone lived their life this way. You thought that others could see the trails of violet and spiraling cerulean that accompanied the wind whistling down the street, and watch the thick washes of tangerine that accompanied each piano chord. You don’t think that any more.

Some days you spend nearly all of your time at work, listening to songs and choosing which will play on the radio. You enjoy your job, and wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. It is the best job you’ve ever had. But there are other days when the walls of your office feel like they are closing in slightly faster than usual, so you set up the forecast to play on its own and leave before the broadcast starts. This is one of those days.

Instead of listening to the show from your office like you usually do, you decide to go to the Moonlite All-Nite Diner and have a slice of pie. You walk (you always walk) to your favorite restaurant. You spot its mint green glow over the horizon, the color of a distant thunderclap, long before you reach the doors. When you enter the diner, you can hear the chocolate voice of the man on the radio radiating from the speakers embedded in the ceiling. He is still telling the story about you.

You say hello to your brother, Timothy, as you walk by. He doesn’t hear you (he never does), but he understands you just the same. Through a series of hand movements, you indicate that you would like a slice of invisible pie. He nods. He knew what you would order, and saved the last piece for you in the back.

You take a seat at one of the booths. Across the aisle, you recognize the Apache Tracker, who now appears to be an actual Native American, talking to a man you haven’t seen before. He must be new, you think, and that is the last you think of either of them, because your brother returns with your pie.

The plate appears to be empty, but it is not. It takes you a few tries to find the slice with your fork. You eat slowly, savoring the taste of your favorite desert and watching the doors swing open and closed as people enter and leave. As you finish, the man on the radio reaches your favorite part of the show — he introduces the weather.

[[Listen Here]](http://mountmoon.bandcamp.com/track/you-dont-know)

When the notes and hues of the forecast finally fade away, you pay for your meal in the typical fashion and leave the diner. It is a long walk to your house in the Desert Creek housing development, but you don’t mind. You enjoy the time to think, and to watch the night sky — mostly void, partially stars — as it turns above you.

By the time you return home, some kind of disturbance has reached town. The once peaceful sky is being cut into pieces by helicopter searchlights and glowing, purple tendrils of clouds. Distant sirens and screams add a blotchy yellow haze to the mix. So, a typical Friday night. The only thing unusual is that the man on the radio is not talking about whatever threatens Night Vale today. Instead, he is talking about you.

You place a pair of headphones over your ears, blocking out the noise of the outside world. As much as you love music, silence is tied for your fifth favorite sound. When you close your eyes, you see only darkness.

This has been your story.

The radio moves on to other things, more similar to the programs you have come to expect. Later on, you will hear about the stories other people heard on the radio today. They will sound different from what you heard, but on this day, there was only one story.

A story about you.

And you were surprised, because you never expected to hear about yourself on the radio.

Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a tribute to one of my favorite episodes of Night Vale, and I hope I did it some justice. Thanks again for reading!


End file.
